


Trust

by Mallorn



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Sexual Content, Spanking, Submission, there are a couple of coarse words in this but the scene is really very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 20:37:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18301514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallorn/pseuds/Mallorn
Summary: Tarkin opens his eyes and adjusts his uncomfortably tight trousers, willing himself to drag his attention back to the present. You, lying before him, all soft and blushing. The curve of your back, your rounded behind, your thighs… the depth between them… He is getting carried away again.





	Trust

Tarkin likes you freshly spanked. There is something about that state, about seeing you with your bottom blushing as prettily as your face, that touches him. He is never overly harsh – this, whatever it is that you share – is not a punishment. He satisfies a need, catering to the tastes of both. It amazes him how you choose to give yourself to him like this, over and over again, and he accepts your submission as the precious gift it is. Each time he finds you waiting patiently outside his quarters is a new gift of grace. Never a habit, never a chore. He has long since accepted both that you need this, and the pleasure he takes in providing for you.

He has given you permission to contact him over his private comm channel, but you never do, preferring instead to wait. He admonished you for it at first, until you explained that you value the anticipation nearly as much as the act itself. It teaches you patience. This is something he understands, and he has had your code cylinder modified to allow you entrance to this part of the station.

Perhaps the best part is how your sweet moans resonate with something deep inside him, how you draw your breath when the cane meets your flesh. He waits, and then flicks his wrist again. This time, you let out a deep, throaty moan that does something to him. He feels it in his belly, it pulsates, making his cock swell, opens a chasm within that thirsts for more. Another flick, and he’s nearly brought to his knees. Your eyes are closed now, your backside tense, cheeks clenching, then relaxing. Was that the last stroke, or should he give you another one? Just one more, he decides. A perfect one, just where thighs meet bottom.

There. Your gasp is delayed a millisecond, the swish and thud echoing out before your wail comes. He is ready to burst now, ready to wreck you with his hands, mouth, cock. With an effort to stay calm, he sets the cane aside and sits in his chair, raking his gaze along the evidence of his handiwork. Waiting for the next stage, contemplating whether to indulge himself or not. He must not grow soft. He has not.

His manhood is straining painfully against his trousers now, clear evidence that he ought to exercise self-restraint, deny himself. Yet, this level of arousal… He closes his eyes, leaving you to your own thoughts while you catch your breath, as is your preference.

Meanwhile, he contemplates what to do next, how to answer your plea when it comes. It will. It always does; sometimes you just need a little more time to collect yourself. He smirks. Even if you are a slut for this treatment, you can never get enough of what comes after. Not all the time, he corrects himself. But often. His digits cleverly fingering your cunt, thumbing your clit, pressing and pulling and rubbing.

He feels himself twitch at the thought. Perhaps he will even fuck you today. Take out his rigid member and ram it into your wetness, slam into you and give you such a pounding that you cannot even wait until the next evening before you come begging for more. Make you cry out as he thrusts over and over again, so loud that he has to push his fingers into your mouth and make you suck them, just to silence you.

These thoughts are really too much. He opens his eyes and adjusts his uncomfortably tight trousers, willing himself to drag his attention back to the present. You, lying before him, all soft and blushing. The curve of your back, your rounded behind, your thighs… the depth between them… He is getting carried away again. This – this has to stop. He refuses that thought, outright.

He watches intently from his chair beside the bed until he sees the trembling of an eyelid. He relishes what comes next. Your eyes open, the gaze in them dreamy, hazed with lust. He watches how your lips part, how you bite them, and then it comes, softly: “Please.”

Just that word, a single one. He likes to think that he can gauge your mood from it, your level of arousal. Not that he ever lets that influence his decision. He wants nothing more than to thrust his fingers violently into you. Yet, he occasionally says “no”. He does it to remind himself that he hasn’t grown soft.

On such occasions, when he denies you his touch, you sigh with resignation, but so softly it’s nearly inaudible. He is proud with your silence and the absence of begging. Pleading finds no mercy with him. He has none, least of all with himself. On a “no” night, he pours himself a glass of brandy – two fingers, never more – although those fingers are often more similar to Vader’s, than the Grand Moff’s own, slender ones. He sits in silence, sipping his drink, watching you touch yourself quietly, earnestly, without putting on a show. To many men, there would be limited pleasure in witnessing this act, you grinding and humping against your own hand that lies pressed flat between your body and the mattress. To him, it is a display of perfection. He beholds your rosy bottom, still pink from his handiwork, quivering with tension. He sees your face, eyes closed, contracting with effort as you chase your climax. He begins to stroke himself slowly, waiting.

You open your eyes, gaze meeting his, then dropping lower. This is typically when your breath hitches and you come. He does not. When it becomes difficult to resist, he shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose until the urgency is gone. He watches your passion, how it approaches and ebbs out.

When you are ready, you rise, slowly, sinking to your knees in front of him. You kiss the proffered hand, just once, then leave as quietly as you came. He remains sitting until his raging erection deflates. Perhaps this is the hardest part, not to think about how eager you will be for him the next time.

But today is “yes”. “Please,” you plead, and he makes you wait for his verdict. When he says the word, finally, you _whine_ with anticipation.

He takes you on your knees and elbows, and, when he’s close, he pulls you up by the hair. It stings, and yet it only makes you moan harder as you lift your upper body, raise onto your hands, arching your back, voicing your need. And he gives. Everything pent up, all exercised control, all his frustration goes into the inexorable pounding.

On such nights, he keeps you in his bed until morning. Every time, he tells himself it may be the last. And yet, he continues to hope.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you thought this story has similarities with another work of mine, you're correct! When I got the idea for this scene, I wrote it down on a piece of paper, which I mislaid and forgot. The idea popped up again a couple of months later and I wrote the scene once more, but then I of course found the original version. They're a bit different and I'm rather fond of both of them, so I decided to post this one as well. Hopefully, I'm not the only one with this kind of fantasies ;-)


End file.
